


white collar

by AndthereIwas



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Get together fic, M/M, Minor Original Character, So many tropes, hank realizes connor can bang and has a crisis, honeypot Connor, if I had $5 for every trope I could buy a ticket to go personally spit in david's cereal, jealous hank
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-22 03:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15572895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndthereIwas/pseuds/AndthereIwas
Summary: Hank and Connor have been working together, have beenfriendsfor months now.All it took was one case to throw everything Hank had assumed entirely off balance.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe after years of not posting fic I'm here at 2 am posting this before I chicken out. 
> 
> (honeypot connor means he's gonna be doing some seducing first that isn't hank, just as a heads up!)

If asked, Hank would say he’d never been a fan of the plan from the beginning. Loudly and emphatically. As it was, no one had asked. 

“Have I mentioned I hate this plan?”

Hank ignored the chorus of groans that surrounded him, making a face as he took a sip of his day-old coffee. He’d been in a mood since Fowler had called him and Connor into his office about this case a week ago, and despite his best efforts otherwise, they’d been forced to take it. Everyone could fucking deal.

“Lieutenant.” Connor’s voice rang brightly through his headset. Hank pressed it harder to his ear and stamped down the smile that popped up at Connor’s tone because he was _mad_ , goddamn it. “You have, in fact, mentioned your distaste for this mission no less than 18 times in the last 12 hours alone, not counting instances in which you made vague statements regarding displeasure in general, which would bring-”

“Yeah, well add another fuckin’ one to the tally, because _fuck_ this.” Hank rolled his eyes and took another sip of cold coffee. People milled about on the screens in front of him, impeccably dressed and dripping with wealth, chatting among themselves. He leaned back as far as his chair would allow and crossed his arms. The back of his neck prickled with restlessness, and he settled for tapping his foot impatiently. He could have been at home, laid out on his couch comfortably instead of sweating his balls off with the handful of other officers crammed in the back of the van on surveillance duty. 

“Noted.” Connor responded, and Hank would have bet a month’s salary that he was smiling. The fucker. “I am arriving at the drop point.”

Hank watched one of the screens as a sleek black autodriven Jaguar pulled up to the valet at the entrance to the hall, slowing to a stop as one of the passenger doors slid up smoothly. A figure unfolded from the back of the car, stepping out onto the plush carpet with manufactured grace.

Yeah. Hank hated this plan.

“Copy.” Hank grumbled, and after a moment added “Still think I should be out there with you, Connor. Feels wrong.” He watched as Connor passed the Jaguar’s keys to the bored valet attendant and made his way up a set of opulent marble stairs to where the door was held open.

“We’ve been over this, Lieutenant.” Connor replied, voice echoing clearly through the headset while his lips remained closed on screen. Hank shook his head slightly and gulped down another mouthful of coffee. All the months spent working together and Hank still wasn’t used to some of the shit Connor could do. “While your knee is still healing, you need to take it easy in the field-”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a old man and healing’s a fucking nightmare, I get it. I’m telling you, it feels _fine_.” He glared down at the brace secured around his left knee. He’d taken a nasty fall a couple weeks back during a high-stakes case and managed to sprain his ACL just short of a full tear. Lucky him. It’d hurt like a bitch and a half and done him the great injustice of being benched from active fieldwork until cleared by a doctor. Connor had sat with him in the hospital for hours as they waited for the MRI results, his LED spinning a constant angry red.

Hank blinked away the memory and looked back up at the Connor onscreen, smiling and making his way through the gala floor like he belonged there, LED a calm blue. Connor had been the one to wrap up that case with flying colors while Hank was stuck useless in bed, feeling every inch the old man he was. He’d heard from the officers who had accompanied Connor to the final arrest that the android had been a sight like no other. Calm, deadly precision without a single wasted movement or expression. Hank didn’t fucking doubt it.

“Injuries to the anterior cruciate ligament should not be taken lightly, Lieutenant. Putting unnecessary strain on the tear could cause lasting damage and chronic pain.” Connor looked up directly at one of the security cameras and cocked an eyebrow, a tiny smirk playing at his lips. “Especially for someone of your advanced years.”

“Why you _little_ -” Hank spluttered, thunking the coffee cup down on the display in front of him. Cold coffee splashed up through the hole on the lid and down his hand. He wiped it off angrily on his jeans. Perfect. Just fucking great. 

“Suspect spotted.” Connor interrupted, gaze shifting away from the camera and back toward the main hall. Hank could see the twinkle of amusement in brown eyes. _Fucker_. 

“Connor if you think I’m just gonna let that comment slide-”

“Please keep your focus on the mission, Lieutenant.” Connor moved across the floor, nodding politely at the interested looks directed his way. Connor was far from the only android in attendance at the gala that evening, but he drew stares all the same in his tailored navy tuxedo and bowtie, with that single stubborn curl falling softly across his forehead. Hank felt a sudden urge to yank that curl right off Connor’s stupid stubborn head. 

“The mission, my ass.” Hank groaned, and adjusted his leg to relieve a bit of pressure from the brace. The case itself seemed fairly on simple on paper. Pieces of a body had been recovered in matching sealed garbage bags from several dumpsters across the city, all belonging to one Mr. Timothy Gray, aged 42, single, no children, and former personal accountant to one of Detroit’s rising socialites, the young and dashing Seymour Blake. Blake himself had a well-known thousand kilowatt smile, an ever-rotating bevy of suitors, and a pending investigation for several years (and millions of dollars) worth of tax evasion. According to their limited information, Gray had been the one to discover the evasion, and as such, Blake was at the top of the list of suspects. Hank had taken one look at the file and felt a headache settle directly between his eyes. White collar homicide was _never_ that simple.

Sure enough, the more digging he and Connor had done, the more they had discovered Blake was nigh on untouchable. The man’s lawyers were good, and all phone records and emails were tied up until they could procure a warrant, which was buried deep at the bottom of the list thanks to a few of Blake’s connections. Any attempts to visit him at his residence were rebuffed as well, and Hank could only pinch the bridge of his nose as his headache grew worse. Their best chance of forward progress appeared with the word that Blake would be making an appearance at the highly publicized (and exclusive) annual H. Ford Charity Gala. Tickets for tables started at $30K and continued upward, the amount making Hank choke on his coffee when Connor first brought it up. Connor had waved off his concerns at the price, somehow pulling an invitation out of his ass (through hacking? A favor? Paying?? Hank, frankly, didn’t want to know). Which is where Hank’s current nightmare had begun. 

Connor had only gotten _one_ invitation. 

According to Hank, he and Connor proceeded to have an argument where he raised legitimate concerns about Connor attending the gala and approaching their suspect alone.

According to anyone else who was in the precinct that unfortunate day, Hank threw a _fit_.

Fat fucking lot of good it had done him too. Connor had taken his raging ‘argument’ and dismissed it with the cold hard truth that Hank simply wasn’t allowed to participate in fieldwork yet, let alone an undercover mission amongst Detroit’s glimmering upper echelon of society. No amount of yelling would change that fact. Even if the thought of Connor going in to question their suspect alone sent ice racing through his gut with undefined dread. White collar homicide was never fucking simple, and the best backup Connor had was currently stuck in a van with a bum knee, twiddling his thumbs.

Hank took a deep breath and ran a hand back over his hair, adjusting the small ponytail at the nape of his neck. He turned his attention back to following Connor from monitor to monitor as he approached Blake in a route only calculated to appear casual. The mission. Hank was a _professional_ , goddamn it, and so was Connor. He could do this. They could do this.

Hank watched as Connor pretended to bump gently into a middle aged woman, heavy gemstones on her fingers that clutched at a near-empty flute of champagne. Hank rolled his eyes as Connor apologized to the woman, who tittered and giggled as he plucked a fresh flute smoothly from a tray passing by and offered it to her with a bashful smile. Connor and his goddamn ability to ‘adapt to new situations’, his ass. One glance at those freckles and a bat of eyelashes and the woman was absolutely charmed. Cyberlife knew what they were fucking doing when they made Connor. Hank had to hand it to the kid though, he’d placed himself perfectly within the edge of Blake’s vision, ready to step in when the man was free.

Seymour Blake stood several feet away charming his own crowd of admirers, taking sips of champagne between brilliant white smiles Hank had only seen the likes of in ads for toothpaste. Blake’s clear green eyes were sharp under a mop of thick brown curls and warm tan skin. Hank frowned as those eyes made a natural sweep across the room and widened as they landed on Connor. 

“Suspect’s attention on you, Connor” Hank picked up his abandoned coffee cup and hid his scowl behind it, anxiously tapping the fingers of his free hand against his leg. _Never fucking simple_. Hank had a bad feeling about this.

“Copy” Connor’s affirmation came through clearly over top of the quieter small talk Hank could see he was making with the woman. Hank was sure his eyes were gonna roll right out of his head at this rate. Of course Connor could hold two conversations at once. State-of-the-art android shit. Obviously.

“You showing off with this talking in your head shit?” Hank teased, and tipped the coffee up to get the dregs.

“Beginning approach” Connor ignored Hank’s question as he casually looked up and made eye contact with Blake, who cocked an interested brow and raised the flute in his direction. An intrigued smile curled at Connor’s lips in response, and he turned to bid the woman farewell, who reached up to pinch his cheek enthusiastically. Connor laughed and covered the cheek with a hand as he started toward Blake, who murmured something to the people surrounding him, sending them off without a second glance. Connor was still rubbing his cheek as he stopped in front of Blake, a friendly amount of distance between them, and Blake gestured up with his free hand and a laugh.

“Looked like she got you with a good one there. I could almost feel the phantom pain from my aunties in the past.” Blake’s voice was deep and smooth. Chocolate. Hank hated it immediately.

“I must admit, I’m still getting used to the physical sensation of pain,” Connor smiled up at him, and Blake cast a quick glance at the blue LED on his temple before looking back to his eyes, smile softening, “But I’m fairly sure that constituted a ‘good one’.”

“Allow me to help distract you from the pain then, friend.” Blake offered his hand, “I’m Seymour Blake, at your service.” Connor accepted the offered hand with a quirk of his lips.

“I’m Connor. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blake” 

“Please, Connor, call me Sy. ‘Mr. Blake’ makes me feel old and grey.” Blake laughed. “I’ll have plenty of time for that soon enough.” Hank groaned into his empty coffee cup. What a fucking shmutz. And then Connor tilted his head just so, and responded.

“Forgive me if I’m out of line, Sy, but I find it hard to believe someone such as yourself,” Connor paused to drag his eyes across Blake’s face, “could be anywhere close to ‘old and grey’.”

Hank blinked. He reached forward slowly and set the empty cup back on the display. Adjusted his headset. Did Connor just…?

Blake’s eyes flashed, and he moved the barest step forward. Connor spared a quick glance down, following the buttons of his tux and back up, tilting his head to meet his eyes.

“I’d hardly call that out of line, Connor.” Blake purred, and Hank could only blink dumbly as Connor blushed high on the crests of his cheekbones. _Blushed_. What the _fuck_. “Coming from you, I'd consider that high praise.”

“That’s good. I’d hate to do something you didn’t like, Sy.” Connor said, and then Hank watched, mouth falling open, as Connor reached up, wrapped a hand around Blake’s still holding the flute, and pulled it down to his own mouth for a sip. Hank saw Blake’s nostrils flare as Connor glanced up through his lashes, licking his lips free of any remaining champagne. “Mm, a bit… sweeter than I had expected?”

Hank gaped. 

“Yes, well.” Blake cleared his throat, laughed a little, gestured at the LED still a calm blue on Connor’s temple. “You’ll forgive my ignorance I hope, but I wasn’t aware androids could, well. Taste.” Connor pushed their joint hands around the flute back toward Blake’s chest and took a step forward. The friendly distance where they had begun had disappeared entirely. Hank choked down a mouthful of air. When had his mouth gotten so dry?

“I think you might find us capable of much more,” Connor murmured, tracing a finger over Blake’s around the glass. “If you’re interested, of course.”

Hank felt all the air punched out from his lungs. Fucking _what_. His heartbeat pounded loud in his ears, nearly drowning out Blake’s next words as he reached down and picked up Connor’s free hand in his own to press a kiss to freckled knuckles.

“Quite forward, aren’t we, Connor?” Blake said lightly against his knuckles as Connor visibly swallowed. Hank could hardly hear over the dull roar filling his head. Blake glanced around before leaning down to brush his lips against Connor’s ear. “I know a place. Follow me?” Connor shuddered and nodded, pressing closer to Blake, who smiled, pleased, and pulled his hand holding the glass free from Connor’s to place it on a passing tray. He wound his newly empty fingers between Connor’s and stepped back, pulling gently at their linked hands. Hank realized his own hands were pressed into tight fists and slowly, with a great amount of effort, he loosened them.

“On the move,” Connor’s bright, clear voice cut through the moment of stunned silence and Hank jerked in surprise, nearly ripping the headset off. 

“ _Fucking_ -! What the _fuck_ , Connor?!” Hank yelled back into the microphone. “What are you-? What!?” He looked up at the monitors as Connor and Blake walked past camera after camera, Connor still flushed, Blake’s green eyes glinting.

“We’re on the move, Lieutenant.” Connor’s voice was free of any trace of the tone Hank had just heard pour out of his mouth to Blake like liquid sugar. “I saw an opportunity and I took it. I have the suspect’s attention. We are moving to a private location where I will have a greater chance of extracting information. My goal is to interface with his cell phone and isolate relevant data.” Connor's tone was clinically professional but Hank’s brain snagged on ‘private location’. Private location. Blake and Connor. _Never_ fucking _simple_. 

Hank cleared his throat once. Twice. Opened his mouth to respond.

“...Lieutenant? Do you copy?” Connor on screen slowed as Blake was stopped by someone determined to say hello. Hank had a clear view as Blake ran his thumb over Connor’s knuckles reassuringly.

“Copy.” Hank croaked, voice coming out gravelly and from somewhere deep in his gut. His bad knee twinged and he winced, shifting around in his chair. Fuck this entire _fucking_ plan. 

Hank watched, stomach full of something sharp and burning, as Blake managed to wave off the conversation and continued dragging Connor from the main hall of the Gala. As they turned into one of the side halls, Connor hopped forward to walk next to Blake, giving Hank a perfect view through the camera at the downright wicked grin that spread across Connor’s face.

“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not gonna make it to the room,” Blake growled with a predatory grin, reaching up to brush a thumb over a pink cheek, up to the blue LED and back down.

“I find I wouldn’t mind that as much as may be expected.” Connor turned his head just enough and bit gently at the thumb. Blake huffed out a heavy breath that might have been a laugh.

“You’re gonna kill me, Connor.” Blake picked up his pace, pulling Connor along faster.

“I should certainly hope not, Sy.” Connor replied. “I have a few things I’d wanted to try with you, first.”

Hank tore the headset from his ears, pulse thundering under his skin. Where the everloving _fuck_ was the shit spouting out of Connor even coming from? Hank hadn’t- in the entire time they’d known each other, Connor had never shown anything like _this_. Hank couldn’t have possibly-

Connor and Blake turned down another hallway and vanished from the screens. Hank waited one, two seconds, eyes searching as he waited for them to reappear, before he scrambled to right the headset back over his ears.

“Connor! Connor, we’ve lost visual, repeat, we’ve lost visual on you and the suspect!” he barked into the microphone. He turned to the other officers manning the truck. “Are there no fucking cameras down there?”

“No, sir,” the officer sitting to his right replied, flipping switches, changing different monitor feeds to no avail. “We still have audio but the service halls are free of surveillance.”

“ _Fuck_.” Hank spat, “Connor, do you read? We have audio but no visual-”

“Copy.” Connor responded calmly. Hank wanted to punch something. “No backup currently needed. I will signal if necessary.” Hank could hear footsteps and _shhh_ noises as Connor and Blake presumably wound their way down the service corridors.

“In here, quick.” Blake whispered, and the sound of a door opening and closing followed shortly.

“Well, Mr. Blake, you sure know how to show a gentleman a good time.” Connor giggled slightly and Hank felt his jaw clench as it tapered off into a sharp breath. He cursed silently as his mind spun a picture of Connor pressed up against the door of a dark room, LED spinning, mouth open on a gasp, only it wasn’t Blake drawing that sound from him, it was Hank, it was _Hank_ -

“Now Connor, I thought we’d been over this. It’s Sy.” Blake’s voice was far too smug. Hank wanted to punch him straight in his fucking mouth. “Say it for me?”

“I can think of a better idea,” Connor said, and Hank wanted to die. Wished for it viscerally. A meteor, straight through the van and into his head. As if the universe would be so kind to him. Instead, he pulled off the headset, tossed it down onto the display, and got up to open the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” one of the officers asked, not kindly. Hank flipped her off.

“Knee hurts. Gonna stretch it out.” He grunted, wrenching the door open and stepping out. “Don’t need me here to listen to this shit.” He slammed the door shut, and got about a dozen steps away before his feet refused to move. Thought about Connor. Took a couple measured breaths of the cool night air. 

_I think you might find us capable of much more._

Hank scuffed his shoe against the pavement and looked up at the sky. Cursed, loudly. God, he was an idiot. A hot fucking mess.

He’d never even considered… Connor _could_ …

He closed his eyes and the image of Connor in that navy tux licking his lips free of champagne danced across the back of his eyelids. That stubborn curl of hair and all those stupid freckles. The way Connor’s eyes crinkled when he laughed at something Hank said. He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until all he could see were multicolored stars.

 _Never fucking simple_.

 

“Well. _Fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cranked out this chapter in one day and feel alive. Another chapter is on the way. Sorry about blake.
> 
> gathers u all under my large coat. u are safe here.
> 
> the working title for this fic was "oceans fuckin 800" until I realized there was no casino heist.
> 
> (ps in case you're a nerd like me, this fic happens in 2039 and $30K with an inflation rate of 2.5% would be roughly $17.8K now. those are some fancy ass tables.)
> 
> social media is in my profile if u want it because i'm too much of a weenie to attach it directly to this fic.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank tries to deal with his crisis. Connor tries to move the case forward. Only one of them is successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey friends! you might have noticed this fic updated but is still listed as incomplete and the chapter count has bumped from 2 to 3 total. this is because I severely estimated how much I had to say about these boys. lmao. I wound up hitting the halfway point for what was originally chapter two and realizing I still had waaaay more that I wanted to cover, so I decided to cut it into two parts to make it a little bit more manageable. I hope you can forgive me :'D
> 
> anyway here's chapter two!! hope you enjoy it!

“Lieutenant.”

Hank frowned at his screen and made a show of being completely engrossed in the file sitting open on the computer. The cursor blinked back at him, unmoving as it had for the past half hour. Hank huffed a heavy breath through his nose. Traitor.

“ _Lieutenant_.”

Hank raised a single eyebrow as Connor walked over to park his ass on the end of Hank’s desk, crossing his arms and leaning back as if this was a normal occurrence. Which, admittedly, it was. The way Hank felt the sudden conflicting urges to press Connor into the desk until he couldn’t budge and also put about 50 miles of space between them, though. That was anything but. They sat in silence for a moment before Hank cleared his throat.

“What?”

Connor quirked an eyebrow in return, turning to look pointedly between Hank and the handful of sentences he’d managed to bullshit before losing steam completely. Hank stared back at him, arms crossed.

“Your progress on the Gray case has stalled significantly, Lieutenant.” Connor said pleasantly, and Hank added ‘kicking Connor’s butt from his desk to the fucking floor’ to his growing list of urges. “Perhaps a break is in order? It could help you to get away for a moment.” Hank snorted, and glanced back over at the report. Connor had promptly submitted his portion upon his return from the gala, and his recounting of events sat directly above the box containing Hank’s pathetic scattered notes. Hank’s eyes skipped across Connor’s report, not for the first time that day.

- _Blake exhibited personal interest in myself, opening up the opportunity to remove the suspect from public eye_ -

- _was led to a service hallway, in which video surveillance was lost-_

Hank screwed up his mouth at the bitter taste that sat on his tongue. It’d been there all night since leaving the scene and well into the day despite the absolute flood of coffee he’d consumed.

- _upon reaching the storage room, Blake and I engaged in momentary personal contact, and after an appropriate period of time had passed, I informed him of a sudden and unexpected need for my presence elsewhere. Blake expressed disappointment that our contact was cut short. As Blake had already appeared intrigued with several of my functions as an android, I offered a promise of further interaction by inputting my contact information into his phone with a demonstration of manual interface, during which time I was able to isolate a communication between_ -

Hank reached forward and minimized the window with a sharp jerk of his hand. _Personal contact_. He’d reread that particular section of Connor’s report over a dozen times, fingers digging into his palms. _Promise of further interaction_. He was such a sick, masochistic son of a bitch. Each time through managed to dig the pit in his gut deeper and deeper, and he fucking deserved it.

“Lieutenant?” Connor leaned forward, brow furrowed in concern. 

“Know what? You’re right, I need a break. Not getting anything fuckin’ done anyway.” Hank heaved himself to his feet and stretched, cracking his back into alignment. His knee twinged in protest and he hissed a bit. Connor hopped up from his perch on Hank’s desk and Hank turned a shrewd look on him. “Where you off to?” Connor blinked a few times.

“I was…I had assumed you would be heading out to lunch, Lieutenant.” 

“Yu-p.” Hank popped the ‘p’ and Connor frowned.

“Have you decided where we’re going for lunch, then?”

“Uh-uh,” Hank held up a finger and swung it to point at himself. “Just me, Connor. Your suggestion, right? I’m taking a break.” 

“I...” Connor looked down at his shoes for a moment before back up at Hank with a nod. “Of course, Lieutenant. Have a good break.” And with that, he pivoted smoothly around Hank’s desk to sit in his own chair. Hank looked up and cursed silently at the ceiling in an attempt not to watch the spin of slender hips directly in front of him. The same hips Hank had resolutely _not_ spent the entire night thinking about, lying in bed awake and listening as Connor puttered around in their kitchen, doing god knows whatever he usually did at 4 AM. 

Hank hadn’t thought it possible to be in a worse mood than the one he’d been stuck in since they were assigned the Gray case, but of course, Connor had managed yet again to exceed expectations. 

“Right. Later.” Hank grumbled out, walking away and trying his best to ignore the small frown on Connor’s face as he pulled up the report on his own computer terminal. Guilt pooled in his stomach and he took a moment to let it stew there, grimacing. Everyone already thought he was a sack of shit. Looked like today was the day he got to prove them all right.

\--

Despite Hank’s best effort to ignore the Gray case and any life-shattering revelations it may or may not have brought, Connor remained unaffected by the fact that Hank’s world was spinning wildly off its axis and managed to tear through the data he’d gathered at his typical breakneck speed. Three days later found them driving across town on the strongest lead they’d had since the case began, Hank drumming his fingers on the wheel while Connor watched buildings pass outside his window. Silence hung heavy in the car.

That silence had been awarded the prestigious title of Hank’s new best friend over the past few days. Silence was good, mind-numbing. Consistent. Didn’t drop a casual “ _oh by the way in case you were wondering I’m totally DTF if you are_ ” on a case. 

Hank hadn’t been wondering, thanks, but now it was all he could goddamn think about.

It didn't help that he couldn't escape Connor outside of work, either. After the revolution, Hank had opened his home to Connor without a second thought. It’d felt right at the time, and Hank wasn’t fond of thinking about feelings all that closely anymore. He’d blurted out the offer, and the hopeful way Connor’s entire face lit up had assured him he’d made the right decision.

Connor had proven to be… an _unusual_ roommate, to say the least. It had taken a while, but Hank had eventually gotten used to weird crashes and music floating down the hallway from the living room in the dead of night. Sometimes when insomnia got the better of him, he’d wander out for a glass of water only to find Connor sitting in the dark, unmoving, LED dim but just bright enough to illuminate the perfect iron stiffness of his posture. The first time that happened, Hank nearly shit himself and thrown his water halfway across the room, the shattering of the glass causing Connor to jump up into a defensive position, eyes snapping open and immediately on edge. It’d taken them both a good hour to calm down afterward. Connor had apparently also taken to the idea of post-it notes, leaving small encouraging messages and observations everywhere from the milk in the fridge to inside Hank’s coat pocket.

Connor might have done some weird shit, but he took Sumo for walks, gave Hank space when he needed, and was another constant _presence_ in the house, calming in his regularity and slowly but surely managing to make Hank feel more and more that his continued existence wasn’t entirely a waste. For some godforsaken reason, Connor seemed to think Hank was worth his time. The months since Connor had moved in had been… _good_. Better than a lot Hank could remember.

Hank’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Connor glanced over at the creaking of the leather and opened his mouth. It hung there for a moment before he shut it without a word, turning back to the window. 

It was just like Hank to fuck up the first good thing he’d managed to find in years.

“Turn left up ahead.” Connor’s voice was quiet, spoken away from Hank. They’d exchanged few words beyond what was necessary for work since returning home the night of the Gala, not for Connor’s lack of trying at first. He’d been eager to discuss the information he’d managed to swipe from Blake’s phone, clearly pleased with the progress they’d made. Hank hadn’t been able to respond beyond a strained nod, not trusting his mouth to control itself if opened. 

According to Connor, while gifting Blake his contact information, he’d managed to isolate a series of emails between Blake and Gray that alluded to a situation they both seemed to consider too delicate to discuss via email. The back-and-forth had culminated in Blake demanding a meeting, which Gray reluctantly agreed to and was subsequently scheduled to take place several days later at Blake’s residence. Connor was also able to find a text conversation from the same day of the meeting in which Blake and one of his contacts set up (in flowery terms) what Hank had blatantly labeled a booty call. Blake had then texted again later that night cancelling the booty call, claiming to have a migraine and asking to reschedule.

As if the emails and texts hadn’t been enough, Connor had said excitedly, Blake had placed a call at 2:36 AM the following morning to a number corresponding to one ‘F&M Towing, Co.’, located in a neighborhood approximately 13 miles from Blake’s current residence, and, after spending days organizing the data and appealing to Fowler, their current destination.

“It’ll be two blocks up on the right.” Connor murmured, pointing, “There.”

Hank parked, and couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Connor’s LED in the reflection from the window. Blue, circling slowly. He’d been quiet as well the past few days, picking up on Hank’s reluctance to continue a conversation beyond muttered acknowledgements. Hank had caught Connor’s LED spinning yellow a couple of times since, and hell if that didn’t make him feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Connor deserved better than stony silence and a dirty old man who couldn’t get past the (relatively unsurprising) fact that Connor could, god forbid, have _sex_.

Connor unbuckled his seat belt and slid smoothly from the car, adjusting his suit as he closed the door behind him. He’d done away with the Cyberlife uniform after Hank’s incessant hints that other clothes would make a nice change, and replaced it with smart jackets and trousers at which Hank had initially rolled his eyes. Initially.

Hank glanced out at Connor, waiting patiently for Hank to join him on the sidewalk, and took a good, long moment to curse those trousers within an inch of their lives for the way they hugged Connor’s stupid, perfect ass. Jesus _wept_.

Hank pulled himself from the car before the thought could go any farther. F&M Towing stood quietly across the street, tucked between aged apartment buildings. The sign atop the building was faded, paint cracking, and weeds grew thick through the chain link fence surrounding the lot. He and Connor made their way over, looking through the fence at the couple of cars currently in storage among the surplus of empty spots.

“Looks like they’ve seen better days,” Hank said, crossing his arms. Connor nodded in agreement, and turned to head through the door, which jingled as bells attached to the top chimed their entry. The desk sat empty as well as the small sitting area littered with old magazines in various states of disrepair.

“Hello?” Connor called out, taking a few steps further inside toward the desk. Hank shoved his hands in his pockets as he began ambling his way around the room. A grunt of acknowledgement followed by the screech of an ancient rusted chair sounded from a room behind the desk. A moment later a stout, dark haired man appeared in the doorway, wiping off his mustache with an already rather greasy-looking napkin.

“Afternoon, fellas.” he said gruffly, “Just finishin’ up my lunch, be out in a sec.”

“We won’t take up too much of your time, I promise.” Connor said pleasantly. “I’m Connor, and this is my associate, Lieutenant Anderson. We’re with the Detroit Police Department.” The man looked between the two of them, face paling slightly. “We have a couple of questions for you regarding an ongoing investigation, if you’d be so kind.” Color continued to drain from his face and he crumpled the napkin up and threw it carelessly into the room he had appeared from.

“Look, if this is about that business license thing, I’m tellin’ ya we’re takin’ care of it as fast as we can, we got no control once it’s submitted-”

“Oh no, Mr. Giordano, it’s nothing like that.” Connor waved a hand and the man visibly relaxed. “It’s actually about a car we believe you may have towed a little over a week ago. Would you happen to have records available we could take a look at?”

“Oh.” he ran a hand back through his thinning hair, looking marginally relieved. “Yeah, we got the log on the computer in back. Ya got a plate number?”

“We were hoping to view any cars brought in at a certain date and time, if that’s possible.” Connor said, briskly stepping around the desk toward the doorway Mr. Giordano was still occupying. Hank followed slowly, leaving plenty of space between them.

“Uh, I think we can do that.” Mr. Giordano tugged at a corner of his mustache as he retreated back into the office. “It’s one of them spreadsheets, ya know? With the columns you can sort. Over here.” He gestured to an ancient machine that at one time might have been known as a computer. Even Hank, with all his technological shortcomings, could tell the thing was junk. He’d be surprised if it was running anything past Windows 7.

“That would be perfect, thank you.” Connor said, watching patiently as Mr. Giordano booted it up. It took several minutes for the desktop to appear, during which they sat in silence, save for the occasional piercing screech of Mr. Giordano fidgeting in the squeaky desk chair. Hank briefly weighed the pros and cons of grabbing said chair and chucking it through the nearest window.

“Here.” Mr. Giordano grunted, sliding the chair back to give Connor room to look at the screen. “Knock yerself out, kid.”

“I appreciate it.” Connor said, moving forward and beginning to click around the document, brow furrowing as he took in the jumbled mess of logged cars. After a few moments of frenzied clicking and no apparent progress, Hank watched in morbid fascination as Connor began chewing on his lower lip, an entirely unnecessary tic that had no business being as distracting as it was. “Mr. Giordano, I’m afraid the… intricacies… of this system of organization used in your log escape me. How would I go about sorting by date and time?”

“Huh.” Mr. Giordano chuckled slightly, glancing over with a smarmy smile at Hank like they were in on a joke together. Hank stared blankly back. “Thought you’d be able to figure it out with that fancy android brain of yers. Guess ya can’t replicate the genius o’ the human mind after all.” The mouse creaked, Connor’s hand a sudden vice around it. Hank had to remind himself vividly and in great detail why punching a civilian while on duty was an extraordinarily _bad_ idea. It still didn’t manage to stop him from taking a few steps forward to insert himself into Mr. Giordano’s personal space, towering over him with a scathing glare.

“Listen here, _asshole_ -” Hank ground out before Connor cut in to diffuse the tension spiking through the room.

“Gentlemen, please.” he said calmly, tone perfectly level as always. Well, not always, Hank’s brain helpfully piped in. That night at the gala he’d certainly dipped into something other than level. 

Hank kindly told his brain to go fuck itself.

“Connor, you shouldn’t have to take this shit-”

“Lieutenant.”

“I’m serious-”

“As am I.”

“This fucking _garbage_ -”

“ _Lieutenant_.” Connor’s voice was firm, lips pressed together in a thin line. He plowed forward before Hank could get another word in. “Mr. Giordano, with your permission I would ask to interface with your computer, allowing me to streamline the process and find the data I am looking for at a much faster rate. Do you find this agreeable?” His voice was empty and flat. Robotic. It made Hank’s skin crawl and itch to shake Connor by his shoulders until he snapped out of it.

“Yer not gonna stick any weird… spy shit or somethin’ on there, are ya?” Mr. Giordano looked unsure at the idea. “Cause I got my rights, ya know. Privacy.”

“I will be using the interface solely to access the log with my processors. There will be no transfer made to your computer of any sort.”

“Go ahead then.” He gestured at the computer with a grunt. “But I’ll sue the pants off yer plastic ass if yer lyin’, hear?”

“Of course.” Connor responded, already reaching forward and peeling the skin away from his hand. Seeing Connor interface with tech wasn’t anything new to Hank, but he found that this time he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the smooth, white plastic of Connor’s exposed hand. It looked oddly delicate despite the inhuman strength Hank knew it could possess. Almost… soft? He realized he hadn’t actually had a chance to find out yet, and wasn’t that a fucking kick in the gut? Because suddenly Hank couldn’t think of anything else quite as important as reaching forward to brush his fingers over Connor’s bare knuckles, run a fingernail along the seams between his joints, pull that hand to his lips and _press_ -

“Got it.” Connor’s voice jerked Hank out of his head, who blinked and noticed Connor had already removed his hand and replaced the skin, small freckles returning to dot its surface. The overwhelming urge to touch didn’t diminish in the least, much to Hank’s chagrin. 

“Huh?” Hank said, always eloquent.

“The car Blake had towed.” Connor frowned, eyes flitting around as he reviewed the data. “The time and date is a perfect match. Silver SUV, 2036 Audi Q12. Towing paid for in cash. The owner name and phone number corresponding to the job do not match each other and the phone number itself is currently non-operational, most likely fabricated. The car was also noted to come in without license plates.” He turned toward Mr. Giordano, who was staring at Connor in slight awe. “Is this vehicle still in your lot?”

“Plateless Audi? Yer in luck.” He huffed a laugh. “Been the fanciest damn thing we seen here in ages. S’out back, if ya wanna go take a look.”

“We will.” Connor nodded and began heading toward the front door. “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Giordano. You’ve been a great help.” Hank followed him without another word, glaring as the man gave a halfhearted wave and didn’t bother getting out of his chair to see them out. 

Hank jogged a bit to catch up to Connor, who had already located the Audi in the sparsely populated lot and immediately zeroed in on it. The SUV was a sleek, semi-autodrive model and, while not entirely to Hank’s discerning taste, he could still appreciate the amount of money needed to buy such a car. Hank felt a little tickle of warmth low down in his ribs as he watched Connor fondly, circling the car doing his usual crazy-detailed analysis thing, LED cycling slowly between blue and yellow. He cleared his throat and Connor paused to look up at him.

“Think Blake pulled the plates before towing it?” he said gruffly, straightening up a bit under Connor’s gaze. This was work, he was fine. He could do work with Connor. They’d done work together a million times before.

“Most likely. A flash of insight on his part I wouldn’t have expected him capable of, if I’m being honest.” Connor’s lips quirked up into a tiny smile he hadn’t realized he’d missed over the past three days of silence. Fuck. He was _not_ fine. “However, he didn’t have the foresight to remove the VIN number from any of the various locations where it can be found, including the bottom drivers’ side corner of the windshield, here” Connor pointed at a series of tiny digits and letters etched into the glass that Hank might have noticed if he’d had a magnifying glass and several hours worth of free time with nothing better to do than look over every inch of a car.

“And?”

“And according to the VIN, this vehicle does not belong to Blake.”

“Well that’s just fuckin’ great.” Hank sighed and ran a hand impatiently through his hair, messing up his ponytail. “Waste of a goddamn afterno-”

“It belonged to Mr. Timothy Gray.” Connor’s smile grew wider. Hank’s heart gave a weak flop.

“Huh?”

“The VIN is on record as belonging to Mr. Gray. This was his vehicle.”

“So what you’re telling me,” Hank ran a hand over his face to hide his own smile, “is that Blake called a tow truck at 2:36 AM the night after meeting with Gray… to have _Gray’s_ plateless luxury SUV towed.”

“That is precisely what I’m telling you, Lieutenant.” Connor was beaming and Hank’s heart _hurt_ with it. “I believe that should be sufficient evidence to gain an arrest warrant, don’t you?” 

“ _Hell_ yes. Let’s head back to the station and close on this motherfucker.” Hank made a beeline back to his car, Connor following close at his heels. Out of the corner of his eye, Hank could see Connor’s LED blinking a rapid yellow before back to blue.

“Appropriate request paperwork placed.” Connor said brightly. “If all goes well the warrant should be approved early this evening.” 

“You’re something else, Connor.” Hank said with a shake of his head, trying and failing to keep the fondness bubbling in his chest from seeping up into his voice. “Always a step ahead of this old man.” Connor walked around the car as Hank pulled his door open and tilted his head slightly from across the roof, eyebrows drawn together. Hank stopped with one foot in the car, waiting.

“Only sometimes, Lieutenant.” Connor said quietly. Hank’s smile fell from his face as he noticed Connor’s LED spinning a steady yellow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He chuckled, sticking his leg the rest of the way in and sitting down heavily behind the wheel. “Can’t think of a single time I’ve been ahead of you in anything since you showed up.” Connor sat down slowly, looking at the dashboard as they closed the doors. Hank could see bright yellow reflected in the window.

“I….” Connor spoke up after several moments, voice small, continuing to face forward. “I’m afraid I… struggle sometimes. Processing emotion and trying to comprehend how it was caused or how to resolve it.” He paused, hands fidgeting with the hem of his suit jacket. “Understanding the emotions of others and how they affect my own is particularly challenging. Before I became deviant... I could construct the most likely emotional response from others based on logic and current psychology. Now…” he trailed off, head turning toward Hank while his eyes remained fixed downward. “Now I find that same process fails me. Logic becomes harder to pursue. My own emotions interfere.”

“They do that sometimes.” Hank said, crossing his arms. “Little sons of bitches get in the way of everything.” _Like being able to talk to you_ , he managed to keep the words from slipping out, _not being able to look at you without remembering the way you glanced at Blake through your eyelashes, not being able to forget the way you’d gasped_ -

“It’s frustrating.” Connor admitted quietly, finally looking up at Hank, who froze in place. Connor searched his eyes for a moment before his jaw set, seemingly coming to a decision. “Lieutenant.”

“Yeah?”

“Why have you been ignoring me since the Gala?”

Hank’s stomach dropped straight into his feet. Oh _fuck_.

“W-” He croaked out, swallowed, “what are you talking about, Connor?”

“You have displayed a notable discomfort around me over the past three days.” Connor’s face hardened. “You have gone out of your way to prevent us from being alone within the same room for more than a few minutes.”

“I wouldn’t say-”

“You have decreased direct eye contact by 83.2%.” Connor raised his voice, cutting over Hank’s protests. “You have said a total of 27 words to me while at home during the past three days. On average, one day’s total is well over _quadruple_ that number. You place yourself so that I am well outside of the bubble in which you usually talk to your close acquaintances, you respond to my questions with grunts or single words, you shy away from casual contact _you_ encouraged _me_ to grow comfortable with as if my touch causes you physical pain,” his face crumpled, “ and I _don’t know why_.” Hank felt stabs of ice shoot through his belly as the light reflected in the window turned an angry red.

“Connor-”

“Tell me why, Lieutenant!” Connor demanded, fingers digging into his own leg through his trousers. “It doesn’t make sense!”

“Connor!”

“I completed the mission perfectly and secured invaluable data that has allowed us to nearly close the case! I submitted my report well ahead of time! I have given you this space that you seem to suddenly require and nothing I do seems to fix the problem! What have I done wrong?!”

“ _Goddamn_ it, Connor!” Hank yelled, “Just stop! It’s not you, alright? It’s my own _fucking_ problem and I’m trying to fucking _deal with it!_ ”

“But if you just _told_ me I could help-”

“No you couldn’t, Connor! This isn’t some fucking puzzle you need to solve!”

“Hank, _please_ -”

“Just drop it!”

“Hank-”

“ _You’ll only make it worse!_ ” Hank roared, slamming a fist down on the steering wheel. Connor’s mouth snapped shut, face shuttering save the bright red of his LED. The weight of Hank’s outburst echoed through the car for a moment before Connor turned and opened the passenger door. 

“I understand.” Connor said evenly as stood from the car, tone entirely devoid of emotion. Hank’s heart shattered, guilt pouring into his chest in its wake and squeezing his windpipe shut. “If my presence causes you pain, the simple solution would be to remove it.”

“Connor, wait, I didn’t-”

“I will see you at the station this evening for the arrest, Lieutenant. Goodbye.” Connor stepped back and slammed the door closed, causing the whole car to rock with his strength. Hank sat, speechless, as he watched Connor disappear down the sidewalk in his rearview mirror, and looked back at the now-empty seat. He punched the steering wheel a second time, relishing in the pain that shot up his arm. 

Of _course_ Connor fucking noticed. He was literally designed to observe and analyze patterns of behavior. He’d probably seen Hank acting weird since the moment they got home three nights ago. Hank wanted to scream. Connor was brilliant and unparalleled in his abilities. If he’d noticed Hank acting strangely, it was only a matter of time before he picked up on something that gave Hank away entirely. Connor would _know_.

And Hank? 

He’d be alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry. I love you.
> 
> I promise chapter three is the last!! cries


End file.
